


When, how, and because we do

by aesc, pearl_o



Series: Tough little baby telepath [4]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Blow Jobs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hand Jobs, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:56:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesc/pseuds/aesc, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearl_o/pseuds/pearl_o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[TLBT AU-of-the-AU] Erik brings Charles home to meet his mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When, how, and because we do

**Author's Note:**

> As you can tell from the summary, "When, how, and because we do" does not take place in the "canon" TLBT universe. One day, though, **aesc** got an ask (which she has long since lost, and she can't recall the name of the asker /o\\) inquiring about an AU derived from Erik's dream in "After the click of the shutting," in which Charles gets to meet Edie. **Pearlo** started to think about it, doodled out a beginning, and things went from there, as they tend to do with these two.
> 
> So that said, even though there is the significant difference of Edie being alive in this version, we've tried to keep some of the other issues the same. So this is not precisely a happy-fluffy meet-the-family-fic. There are brief mentions of PTSD-related symptoms and psychological trauma as well.
> 
> Fic title is from J.H. Prynne's "Against Hurt."

**When, how, and because we do**

The morning doesn't start out as well as it could. Erik had planned to get up early, make them breakfast, maybe take a walk together outside in the morning breeze, give them plenty of time to get ready before it was time to go. But he'd left his phone in his jeans pocket last night when they got home, instead of on the charger, and the alarm couldn't go off to wake him when the phone was out of juice. 

They'd gone out with Moira the night before. It was the second time they'd tried it, and it went much better this time. It's taken a few months, but Moira's stopped watching the two of them together with that look in her eye like she's waiting for something to break or to hear the punchline of the joke. And if Charles still puts on a role with her, it's one he seems to enjoy a lot, and Erik can tell exactly how much he likes and respects Moira. Charles got a little drunk, and Erik used his power to cheat at darts, and Moira schooled them both at pool; then he and Charles had come home, had sex, and finally fell asleep in the wee hours in the morning.

So between the late night and the dead phone, both Erik and Charles ended up sleeping in. Now they're running late for the visit to Erik's mom, hurrying around each other to shower, get dressed, and get all their things together. There's the small blessing that Charles isn't hung over (he claims to be immune, though whether it's related somehow to his powers or just a side effect of being young, Erik isn't sure), but what Erik can feel of his background thoughts is spiky and gray, a tiny drizzly rain cloud. It's a cloud made of distant unhappiness and worry, speculation about what kind of disaster might be waiting for him.

Erik knows full well how little Charles appreciates any attempts at reassurance, especially about this sort of thing, so he fights the urge to give any. His restraint lasts a fairly long time; it's not until they're been in the car and on their way for a good five minutes that he finally gives in. Silence has been festering around Charles all morning, and it's either lance it now and let it drain, or have it build until they actually get to Ma's house and it explodes all over the place.

"There's nothing to be nervous about," he says, glancing over at Charles, who is curled on the far side of the passenger seat, his head resting against the window, staring out across the city. Although Erik can only catch a bit of his expression in profile, he knows the hunch to Charles's shoulders that says Charles isn't seeing anything except his own thoughts. "She's going to love you."

"I'm not nervous," Charles snaps, which is such an obvious and blatant lie that Erik has nothing to say in response. The amusement and disbelief in his mind must shine through perfectly clearly, though, because Charles turns toward Erik to give him a scowl and says, "Oh, screw you" in response.

"See?" Erik says, smiling faintly. "What's not to love?"

He reaches out his right arm, resting his palm gently against the back of Charles's neck.

Charles shudders against him. "Shut up," he says softly, but he leans back into Erik's touch. 

"Trust me, she wouldn't want you over for lunch if she thought she wouldn't like you." It's the last bit of reassurance Erik can give; Charles will have to find a way to believe it, or find out for himself that he doesn't need to worry. After Shaw, his mother had been much slower to trust people who weren't Erik or the small community of their synagogue and their neighborhood. She still doesn't like new people in the neighborhood, and she won't allow repair people into the house to do work unless Erik or one of her friends is there. That she's asked Charles into her space says more than Erik can express.

If he's listening in on Erik's thoughts, Charles doesn't say anything. Still, his anxiety does smooth out into thoughtfulness as the road stretches on, and he doesn't protest when Erik transfers his hold from his neck to his knee. Erik gives half his mind to the road and the other cars, the rest to thinking about how Charles has found himself trapped between his instincts and knowing he can't react the way he always does when meeting new people. He can show them the face they want, or the face they expect – the charming flirt, the smooth, competent investigator, the (Erik grins to himself) pain-in-the-ass spoiled brat – but to Edie, Charles will have to show his true self, the Charles that he's allowed only Erik to see so far.

How someone couldn't love that, what Charles is, Erik has no idea. But he has a faith in his mother that Charles doesn't have. He wishes he could give Charles some of it. Sometimes he thinks Charles half-believes Erik's made her up, or has at least exaggerated her. Given Charles's experience of mothers, Erik can't blame him.

Driving out to Queens every week for years means he can make the trip nearly in his sleep. Soon the huge apartment blocks of Astoria give way to the smaller buildings and family homes in Ridgewood. Erik turns down one street, a straight row of small, tidy houses sided with wood or brick, their lawns trimmed and gardens in careful order. Other than a few new faces and some new cars, the street hasn't changed since Erik's school days. Since before then, he suspects.

He parks the car down the street from his mother's place. Charles doesn't move as Erik collects his small bag of groceries and gets out, and Erik thinks, _Do you want me to come around and open the door for you, sir?_ , rather than asking Charles if he's okay or if he's changed his mind. It works, forcing Charles to scramble out of his seatbelt and then the car itself quickly. 

Charles follows half a step behind Erik on the sidewalk, looking around and taking it all in, though Erik isn't sure exactly what it is he's seeing or what judgments he's making. That's fine. Let Charles process however he can, he figures. Absently, he steps around an old crack in the sidewalk that's never been fixed. Only the roads department, he thinks, is more stubborn than his mother or the other neighborhood ladies.

It's a nice day, clear and warm, but with a breeze to cut the heat from the summer sun. The old lady who lives in the other half of the duplex is out sitting on her side of the porch with one of her friends, sipping cold drinks as they spy on the neighborhood. Predictably, her sharp eyes fix on them, vulturelike and dissecting behind their thick-framed glasses.

"Erik, _bubeleh_!" she calls, loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. Erik winces. Charles responds with a flicker of evil amusement when he realizes what _bubeleh_ means.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Rosenstein," Erik says politely; anything he says to the old bat will get reported to his mother, and he'll receive it back in scolds twenty times over.

"Good afternoon, Erik," she says back, giving him a smile. She's turned back to her friend, conversing in a rush of whispers like birds flapping their wings, before he's even gotten his mother's door open.

 _You get good son points for visiting your mom every week_ , Charles informs him, thoughts tinged with the slightest bit of humor. _But you lose a few for not bringing her any grandchildren. They're very modern. Just because you're unfortunately_ that way _doesn't mean you can't produce offspring._

 _Shut up_ , Erik grumbles, perfectly aware he's blushing and also aware that Charles's amusement is growing. He's known Mrs. Rosenstein since they moved here – the neighborhood hasn't changed much, except to grow older – and she's been far too interested in pairing him off and seeing Ma get the grandchildren she deserves for Erik's comfort. _Let's get inside before you become grist for the gossip mill._

 _Oh, it's too late for that_ , Charles says wryly. _They're trying to work out who I am and what I'm doing here, and how they're going to get it out of your mom as soon as we leave._

 _Let them try_ , Erik tells him, because his mother is a force even Judith Rosenstein must reckon with. He uses his power to open the screen door and turn the handle, feeling the familiar, smooth slide of the bar of the lock as it pulls backs. Once he has the door open, he calls out, "Ma?"

"Erik!" comes his mother's voice from the kitchen, as it always does – and, as she always does, his mother appears not a moment later, drying her freshly-washed hands on her apron. "Erik, _schatzi_ , you're here," something else she always says every week they see each other but is heartfelt every time. And, every time, it goes straight to Erik's heart, ruthless and overpowering at first because he remembers how he almost lost her, before it settles into its usual soft glow.

What's different this time is that she's looking past him, past him to where Charles is standing awkwardly in the doorway as if uncertain of his welcome. Which he is, Erik realizes, although Charles isn't projecting deliberately – isn't projecting at all, as far as he knows, it's just that Erik knows him well enough to know what Charles in distress or uncertainty looks like. Charles in distress or uncertainty makes himself small, a telepathic flicker away from becoming invisible, his bold blue eyes abruptly shy, hidden when he looks away.

"And you're Charles," Erik's mother says, her usually clipped tone fading to softness as she approaches him. She's still smiling, the quiet, reserved smile she always has, but one that's no less genuine. "I'm so happy to meet you."

"I'm happy to meet you as well, Mrs. Lehnsherr," Charles says, stepping forward to meet her, his hand outstretched. Ma gives him a smile as she shakes it; the smile grows a little deeper as she glances over to Erik. She might not have telepathy, but Erik can hear what she's thinking just as clearly as if she did, her reaction at this polite, frightened boy he's brought home.

"I swear I've only told him good things about you," Erik says, answering the unspoken words as he leans to press a kiss to her cheek. She smells like flour and perfume and tastes of powder, the bit of makeup she puts on every day.

"It's true," Charles says. "He dotes on you. It's very sweet, really."

 _If you think that's going to embarrass me, you'll have to try harder_ , Erik says silently to him. 

_Do you think after we eat she'll show me your baby pictures?_ Charles responds.

"You boys are right in time," Ma says. "The food's almost ready." She leads them through the hall and front room – crowded with furniture, pictures, and years of living; she can never stand to throw anything out – and Erik can see Charles notice the limp as they follow her. It had almost gone away entirely in the years after the attack, but it's grown stronger again lately. Ma's growing old. Next year will be her seventieth. 

Erik takes Charles's hand in his as they walk. Charles starts at the touch, looking almost guilty, trying to tug his hand away and darting an anxious glance at the dining room as he does so.

 _You realize she already knows we're dating?_ Erik thinks dryly. _Hand-holding isn't going to shock her._

 _I know, it's just..._ Charles expels a heavy, mental sigh. _It's different._

It feels like they're back at the beginning of their relationship, Charles anxious to keep it to themselves, away from prying eyes. Erik wishes he could tell Charles it will be fine, his mother's long since learned to take things in her stride, that any shock or misgivings she might have will be nothing compared to what he can tell she already feels when she looks at Charles. Erik's seen her reacting to new people before, and she's always stiff, formal – not impolite, but not precisely welcoming. She catalogs them, looking for anything that might catch them in a lie. She doesn't look at them like she wants to fuss over them and fret that they're not eating enough.

Still, those are things he's learned, slowly. Charles needs to take them in his own stride and his own time. He lets go, but not without a last pointed squeeze of Charles's fingers, smiles when Charles presses tentatively back before disengaging.

"Ma," he says when they step into the dining room and he sees the table laden with more food than even on holidays, "Ma, this is – "

"It's not too much," Ma says firmly. She sets a pitcher of iced tea by her chair, the same one she's sat in since she bought this set when Erik was ten. The padding on it has been replaced, a little thicker to accommodate her hip, but otherwise it's right out of some of Erik's oldest memories of this house. Everything else, the photos and art on the wall, the wallpaper, is too. 

Ma steps around the table to Charles again, passing in front of a black-and-white photo of Erik's grandparents, breaking Charles's concentration; he'd been studying it, Erik realizes, his mind and that marvelous memory of his recording everything.

"I see my son hasn't been feeding you properly," Ma says as she collects the good silver, her wedding silver, from the buffet. Knives, salad forks, dinner forks, spoons for food and spoons for tea. Erik knows this silver, too.

Charles blushes violently and stammers a moment before regaining something like his usual equilibrium. "We – I – we just finished a case." He glances at Ma's hip again. "I can set the table, if you'd like."

"That's still no excuse," Ma replies, deftly ignoring Charles's offer of help. She kisses Erik on the cheek, a polite dismissal to the kitchen to cut up some bread and tomatoes. "Do you like brisket, Charles?"

Erik can almost _see_ Charles light up at the mention of food. Between them running late this morning and how nervous Charles had been, he hadn't touched breakfast, but maybe he's settling now, enough to be interested. And it would take an act of God, Erik's fairly sure, for Charles not to be interested in the platters and bowls crowding the center of the dining table, nearly pushing the dinner plates off the edge. 

"I like everything," Charles says.

It's the answer Ma wanted to hear; her smile widens in response. "I thought so! I remember what it's like to have a teenage boy in the house. When Erik was your age I couldn't keep the shelves stocked. A bottomless pit, that one."

Charles laughs and glances at Erik, not fixing on him long enough that it could be called ogling. "Really? _Erik?_ "

"You wouldn't know to look at him, would you?" Ma says, shaking her head sadly. "I don't know where he puts it." It's funny, mostly because Ma is just as skinny as Erik has ever been; she looks like you could break her in half without even trying, maybe through a particularly vigorous hug. It's misleading, of course; she's a tough old broad.

Shaw tried to break her after all. Erik carefully presses that memory back, down into the dark place where it belongs. Shaw doesn't get to have his home, or his mother, or any of this.

It's the work of a moment for Ma to set the table, with their three chairs crowded together at one end. When she's done, Ma takes Charles's elbow and leads him to the seat next to hers before settling in next to him, sighing a little as the weight comes off her hip. Erik takes his belated cue and heads through the doorway to the kitchen, pressing a tiny extra bit of _I'm right here_ to Charles's mind as he goes.

The affirmation Charles sends back is still a little unsteady, but now that they've settled on a topic of discussion – Erik, naturally – he seems a bit more certain of his footing. Erik can tell he's still looking for the trap, waiting for it to snap shut on him, only gradually coming around to trust because, to him, families are dangerous things.

It leaves Erik able to pull the bread knife from the old wooden block in the corner of the counter and a fresh loaf from where it's cooled on a wire rack by his elbow. The tomatoes are ripe, heavy and red, in their bowl by the stove. Aside from a new stove and a bit of new paint on a wall, nothing's changed, even the toaster In its place under the window that looks out into their backyard. Everything's like it's always been, hundreds of other near-identical memories for him to call up as he inhales the warm scent of the bread, sharpens the blade, and begins to slice.

"Erik says you used him as your sous chef when he was younger," Charles says after a moment of quiet, his voice softly tentative.

"What he probably didn't tell you was that started when I had to find some way to punish him for ruining my silverware _and_ refusing to fix it," Ma says. Erik groans, just loud enough to be heard, which makes both her and Charles laugh. "I couldn't ground him – Erik would happily have spent all his time in his room, if I let him – but I had to do _something_. So I decided he would have to help me prepare meals for two weeks."

"And he kept doing it because he liked it?" Charles asks. "Or," he adds with a slyness that makes Erik sigh to himself, "did he keep doing it to show you he didn't consider it a punishment?"

Ma says, "I see you've discovered how stubborn he can be. It was a bit of both, I think – as far as I can ever tell what's going through his mind."

"I can see what he's thinking a lot of the time," Charles offers, with a sort of carefulness Erik doubts his mother can notice, skirting close to the edge of bringing up his telepathy, "but it's not as helpful as you might think. I still don't understand him most of the time."

"Well," Ma says, and Erik can just imagine the exact smile on her face to go with that tone of voice, the one she wears when talking about the father Erik never really knew, "what fun would love be if we always understood each other?"

Charles's surprise is bright in Erik's mind, a flicker of it as Ma pats his hand; Erik knows that pressure, the reassuring solidity of it, although he can't see it with his own eyes. He can't help but smile down at the tomatoes.

"Do you mind telling me more about your gift?" Ma continues. "Erik told me that you were a mindreader– " Untrue; Erik would never use the word mindreader, with its demeaning connotations of circus and music hall shams and trickery, but it's not as if his mother is familiar enough with mutant politics to know why it's an unfortunate word choice " – but he didn't go into much detail."

Erik judges this a good time to reenter the room, carrying the tray along behind him. As always, he basks a little in the glow of Charles's admiration – he always loves it when Erik uses his abilities, even for a small thing like this. Ma doesn't react, but then, this is something she's seen ever since Erik learned enough control to balance things on a metal cookie sheet. Charles observes this with admiration too, and a little disbelief; Erik can't imagine what it's like, seeing a parent so unconcerned with her child's abilities, when his own either tried to exploit them or tried to forget they exist.

"Ma, is this enough?" He lowers the tray so she can see it, and she nods approvingly at the thick slices of bread with their coatings of poppy seeds, the tomatoes in their own dish with their slick insides and ruby flesh. Unfortunately, she isn't distracted from her questions, or from Charles.

"I..." Charles's anxiety is a clamor in Erik's head. He knows, of course, that Erik's mother has been nothing but supportive of his mutation, even though she's never quite been able to understand it, from that generation before people really started to understand what mutation means. Telepathy, though, is still a possible hornet's nest; you never know if you're going to step in it, Charles says, until you already have. "I can read minds, yes. But Mrs. Lehnsherr, I wouldn't read your mind without your permission."

"Well," Ma pauses, so visibly searching for something to say to that, that Erik wants to jump in, change the subject, do anything. But then Ma says, "I'm sure you'll be quite disappointed to know you've missed out on my trying to make sure our meal has everything it needs," with the sly tone that never failed to make Erik blush and laugh as a teenager.

Charles responds to that, smiling that slow, tentative smile he has when he's allowing himself to believe that the world isn't ending. It catches just beneath Erik's heart, like it always does. "It doesn't look like you've forgotten anything, Mrs. Lehnsherr."

"Now," Ma says, returning to the chase, "can you send thoughts too? That must be very useful in the... the field."

Charles nods, and Erik butts in. "We're able to have entire conversations without anyone else being able to overhear. Of course it comes in handy on the job."

Not only on the job, of course, but Erik can't think of how to begin to explain to his mother what it feels like, having Charles's mind entangled with his as it is now almost constantly, the lightest of touches but undeniably present. He doesn't really have the vocabulary to describe the sensations of telepathy; the words simply don't exist. And besides, even beyond that – there's something intimate about it that belongs only to them, like a certain way of touching, or an expression only the two of them understand. Not a conversation easy to have with one's mother.

Charles's cheeks go a little pink at that thought, and Ma turns her gaze from him back over to Erik, giving him a knowing look. "It's rude to make an old lady feel left out," she says pointedly.

Of course, Charles's blush only increases at that, spreading across his face and down his throat, but Erik just smiles. "Sorry, Ma."

"So long as you don't canoodle when you should be enjoying your lunch," Ma says with a meaningful look. Charles's blush spikes alarmingly and he seems ready to choke on his embarrassment; for himself, Erik isn't much better. His protesting "Ma _ma_ " is met with his mother's butter-can't-melt-in-my-mouth innocence. _That's_ an expression he knows well, down to the wide grey eyes that seem to say _who, me?_ and the softly disbelieving _o_ of her mouth.

Mercifully – or, not so mercifully, given what comes out of her mouth next, Ma changes the subject. "You know, Charles, when Erik first manifested, he demagnetized my credit card and the refrigerator. All the magnets fell off, just like that, all over the floor."

Charles, damn him, bursts out laughing. Erik scowls and asks, "Are we going to eat before the food gets cold?"

"Of course, dear," Ma clucks. "Charles, there's water, iced tea, or Erik's terrible beer. Which," she adds with a meaningful look for Erik, "he can get himself."

"Iced tea is fine," Charles says as Erik considers fetching the kristallweizen his mother keeps for him, despite her complaints about it. He surveys the table again, loaded with all of Ma's classics, designed to put meat on anyone, but especially on the bones of a stubbornly skinny boy who hasn't had the chance to eat like this in far too long. "This looks wonderful."

"There's plenty of it," Ma tells him with a smile. It's one of her soft ones, sad, like she's understood something about Charles that Erik's never told her – his past, his issues with accepting kindness, his envy of Erik's family of two. "You eat as much as you like."

There's a lull in conversation then as they begin to serve themselves. Erik tries to take only a little bit of everything until his mother makes an impatient noise that means _eat up! More!_ , and half-spoonfuls turn into piles of potatoes and onion, brisket, greens, and an apple casserole that's almost like dessert for lunch. Charles, meanwhile, has started off with even smaller portions, but Ma is inexorable.

"You wouldn't insult an old Jewish lady's cooking by picking at it like a bird, would you?" she says with the fake-indignant tone that can send anyone, even Moira, slinking off guiltily. She's not really offended, of course, but maybe she senses that Charles wouldn't respond to urging to take more; he reacts much better to teasing, to cajoling – _to the Lehnsherr brand of asshole_ Charles will think sarcastically to him – or anything that allows him to snap back a reply.

Not that he snaps back now, but he does respond, heaping food onto his plate until Erik half-expects the porcelain to snap under the weight.

Charles makes a noise at his first bite of meat, a mixture of surprise and delight coming out in a half-moan. It's not entirely dissimilar to a few of the noises Erik's heard him make in bed, which is a thought Erik would rather not be having right now; he looks down at his plate and keeps his face completely still. 

"Oh my goodness, Mrs. Lehnsherr," Charles is saying, once he's swallowed down his mouthful and set his fork down, "this is delicious. I think that might be the best thing I've ever put in my mouth."

Erik literally can't tell whether or not that was meant to be a double entendre. Ordinarily, he wouldn't put anything past Charles, but these are special circumstances. 

"You are a darling, aren't you?" Ma says, with an audible trace of smugness in her tone. "What a flatterer. Erik, I can see why you like him so much."

Erik shakes his head. "He doesn't flatter me like that, I can tell you that."

"Well, of course not. You're full of yourself enough already."

"Hey!" Erik says.

"Erik, you are my only child and I love you more than the stars and the sky, but let's just say, self-esteem has never been your problem." Ma takes a small, smug bite of potato to emphasize this.

"I do say nice things to him sometimes," Charles says, addressing Ma rather than Erik, so earnest Erik would think he's exaggerating were it not for the warm caress across the surface of his mind that says Charles means every word, and means more than he's saying. "I'm really very fond of him."

"I can tell you are, sweetheart," Ma says soothingly.

Charles doesn't seem to have anything to say to that, but gives Erik a quick smile before he returns to eating. He's projecting just the tiniest bit, as if he can't help himself, pleasure and happiness that aren't really defined but are instead just _there_. Erik, used to far more obvious – and pointed – projections than that, nearly misses it until he feels an unaccountable lightness tickling at the back of his mind.

"Is that you, Charles?" Ma asks, setting her fork down. "I suddenly – well, _felt_ something."

"It is," Charles says softly, and the warm glow vanishes, like the strands of an anemone folding up in a rough current. "I'm very sorry, Mrs. Lehnsherr, I wasn't thinking. And I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"Nonsense," Ma says. She sets her napkin down on the table. "I haven't felt that since, well... A very long time. It's lovely, Charles. I'm glad you feel at ease here. You're nothing but welcome, you must know that."

If Erik had to hazard a guess, he'd have to say the last time either of them felt like this – at least, for Erik, the last time before Charles – was a few years after Shaw. In those years, the holidays had always been silent, somber, filled with his mother's anxiety and his anger. But one Purim, they had looked at each other over a table laden with apples and honey, and started laughing.

He gives the memory to Charles, like a gift, and he can see the pleasure swipe across Charles's face.

"Can you tell me more about yourself?" Ma says. Normally she'd be pushing harder, specific probing questions; the third degree has a lot in common with her idea of polite conversation. She's holding back, though, because Erik's asked her to. Erik didn't tell her about Charles's past, not specifically, at least. Just enough to let her know there's damage in the background, bruises that don't need to be pressed. Ma can understand that, after everything the two of them have been through. If Charles decides, later, to take that as some kind of coddling – well, Erik will deal with that later.

"I'd just about given up hope of seeing Erik bring somebody home to me," Ma continues.

Charles smiles crookedly; when he looks down at the table, a lock of hair falls across his forehead. He'd groomed it so neatly and carefully in the apartment this morning, and it's stayed in its unaccustomed styling until this moment, but Erik supposes there's only so long it could resist; that wild and untamed mop is always waiting to run free. "I'm sure I'm not exactly what you had expected."

"Why? Because you're a boy? Because you're young?" Ma says, blunt as ever. "My Jakob was twelve years older than me, you know. I've given up on expectations a long time ago. People always surprise you. The only thing I was sure of is that Erik is a special boy, and if he ever found somebody who could make him maybe a little bit happy, that person would have to be very special too."

"He is," Erik says firmly, before Charles can try to demur. _You are_ , he thinks fiercely at Charles, and is relieved to see Charles straighten, regaining some of his balance.

"I think it's just that he likes being annoyed," Charles says with a devilish grin. "He tells me I'm very good at doing that."

"Erik's never believed in taking the easy way," Ma says. She has a smile of her own that says, despite the teasing words, she's proud. "He told me a bit about how you met, but not much about you beyond the fact that he's crazy about you. I'm sure I've got some things wrong, but other things I've gotten right, I assure you."

"Okay," Charles says slowly. He takes another bite of brisket to stall, and then another when Ma urges him to be sure to eat plenty. "I went to college very early, when I was fourteen. It's, ah, my mutation. But I left early too, and came back to New York." Erik knows that, for Charles, his life really begins with Oxford; everything prior to that is a half-life, lived by a boy Charles is reluctant to think of himself as being. There's no way he can explain this to Ma, but, he thinks, she understands a little of it. "Then I saw that the NYPD was starting a pilot program for telepathic consultants in cold cases, and I decided to give it a try."

"Wonderful," Ma says, with a hint of laugh in her voice that says she means it. Even without reading her mind, Charles must know she's proud of him. "Is that how you and Erik met? I haven't been able to get it out of him yet."

"Not exactly," Charles says, obviously weighing his words carefully. "I mean, we'd run across each other before then, but we hadn't really gotten to known each other. Even after we started working together, it took a while. It's kind of funny, really. I thought Erik was a jerk when we first met, and I think he thought I was just some annoying kid the department hired just to irritate him."

"I always suspected there was more to you, hiding in there," Erik says.

Charles snorts, shaking his head, and says to Ma, as if Erik can't hear, "He's always doing that, re-writing history."

It's cuter than it should be; apparently it's easier for Charles to reach out and make connections with her when it's a matter of taking sides against Erik and teasing him further. Erik should have seen that coming, maybe. He doesn't exactly mind. 

Erik finishes up his meal, pushing his plate forward a little on the table. He wants to cross his arms, lean forward against the table, the better to watch Charles, but he knows the lecture he'd get about it by heart, so he settles for leaning back in his chair. He's full, and while normally that wouldn't stop Ma from urging more food on him, today she's got a better target to distract her. Erik's actually a little amazed at the amount of food Charles has already put away; even though Charles's second helpings are smaller than the first, they're still considerable, even given Charles's lack of breakfast and the high energy demands of his mutation.

Ma, of course, isn't surprised at all. "Erik," she says in that tone that's half-order, half-teasing, "I expect you to take home leftovers."

"Why would I say no?" Erik asks. "I think I've taken leftovers home ever since college."

He'd been the envy of his suitemates in school whenever he'd shown up after break with an insulated bag full of food and a few grocery bags besides. Only the collective knowledge that you didn't screw with Lehnsherr's stuff meant Erik had been able to consume it all, even though Ma had told him to save some treats for his friends. Since Erik hadn't had any friends, the admonition had been pointless and Erik had been able to keep the cookies, doughnuts, and cakes for himself.

Something in Ma's words, maybe, brings uncertainty flooding out of Charles's mind. Or, Erik thinks, realizing that he's the only person still eating, with Ma only eating the occasional olive from the dish at her elbow. It's only been recently, he knows, that Charles has started to feel comfortable with eating more in Erik's presence, especially food he didn't buy or make himself. Charles finishes what's on his plate – there wasn't much left – and carefully sets his fork and knife down, sitting back with an air of finality, although he glances quickly at the bowl of potatoes with caramelized onion.

"I didn't mean to keep eating when everyone had finished," Charles says, with a guilty look for Ma and Erik. "Can I help clean up?"

"You see those beautiful manners?" Erik says, before his mother can get in a word. 

"I do," Ma agrees. "It makes me wonder what such a nice boy is doing with a grouch like you."

Erik rises from his chair, leaning over to kiss her hair before he takes the plate sitting before her. "You go relax in the living room for a bit. You deserve it, after that feast. Charles and I will take care of the dishes."

Charles is out of his seat almost as soon as Erik finishes the sentence, beginning to gather dishes toward him. Ma watches him, looking a little surprised, a little appraising – she's still trying to figure Charles out, still hasn't quite fit him together in a way that makes sense to her. Erik can understand that. He felt the same way early on, trying to suss out the mysterious brat of a telepath Moira'd saddled him with, and then learning to look behind the mask to the fragmented, fractured thing Charles was trying to hide.

"Be sure to wrap everything properly," Ma admonishes. "No foil around the brisket. And don't leave the soup in the pot – "

"Put it in Tupperware," Erik finishes. "I've done this probably longer than I can remember."

"A reminder is always good." Ma braces herself on the edge of the table and rises stiffly. It hurts to watch; Erik barely restrains himself from jumping forward to help, or asking her if she's been to her doctor lately. Charles also watches in consternation, a stack of plates in his arms that he's thinking about setting down. To do what, Charles doesn't know; his head is filled with vague images of helping support her, walking her the few steps to her chair in the living room. Erik sends him a quick mental headshake; this is one of the many things Ma insists on doing for herself.

"I can feel you talking over my head you know," Ma grouches. She laughs a little to take the sting out, and pats Charles on the arm. "I'm not through with you yet, Charles. I hope you like chocolate cake. And," she adds before Erik can ask, "I've made your jelly doughnuts too, Erik.'

Charles follows Erik into the kitchen. He set his armful of plates down on the counter and watches as Erik starts a pot of coffee. There's an expression on Charles's face Erik can't quite recognize, but he can't feel any distress or worry coming from their connection, just a vague thoughtfulness.

"There's a dishwasher next to the sink," Erik says, "but don't put any dishes in it, only silverware. She insists on washing all the dishes before they go in. Of course, once she's washed them, they don't _need_ the dishwasher, but she doesn't listen to me when I try to explain that." He finishes setting up the coffee machine – the good stuff he brings her, not the cheap supermarket stuff he knows she uses when he's not here – and turns back to Charles. "How are you doing?"

Charles rolls his eyes. "I think I'm surviving having a delicious meal with a kind old lady. Shockingly enough." He's started rinsing off the dishes into the sink, head tilted down as he watches what he's doing. Erik comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around Charles's waist and pressing a kiss to the back of his neck.

"I thought this was a no canoodling zone," Charles says, stiffening a little as if to pull away. Not that there's anywhere to go, with the counter in front of him and Erik pressed close behind.

"This isn't canoodling," Erik tells him, although it probably is. Still, he sets his teeth to Charles's nape, biting gently, enough to call up a shiver, replacing it with lips and tongue before he leaves a mark. "That's canoodling."

"And that's going to get us in trouble," Charles grumbles. He shrugs in Erik's embrace and Erik, recognizing Charles's unease, steps away. Once Erik's out of canoodling range, he begins to wash the silverware, scrubbing at it with the rough side of a sponge to take off the food particles. That thoughtfulness is back, focusing and intensifying a little more as Charles falls into the rhythm of his work.

"You want to talk about it?" Erik asks. He busies himself with getting down the dessert plates, the robin's-egg blue he's seen nearly every day of his life since he was little. There's a trademark on the underside of each one, saying they came from Germany, brought with his mother's family when they immigrated. They're all pristine, carefully guarded and wrapped between moves.

 _Not now_ , Charles sends, probably sensing that Ma can hear anything in this house. _I'm okay, Erik. Just... thrown, I suppose. I knew you love her, and she loves you, but it's different, seeing it._

Erik doesn't have the slightest clue how to respond to that – he's not sure Charles wants a response at all, for that matter, He concentrates on getting the food put away, separating all the leftovers into two piles as he goes, a smaller one for Ma and a larger one to take with him. He and Charles will be eating well; no peanut butter and jelly this week.

"I _like_ peanut butter and jelly," Charles mutters, as if he's talking to himself and not responding to Erik's thought.

It's not even true – he might not hate it, but the sandwiches are something Charles eats because they're _there_ , easy and cheap and fast, something he doesn't have to think about. They're not something he cares about, and it raises Erik's hackles a little for Charles to pretend otherwise. He doesn't want to fight, though, and he doesn't think Charles actually does, either; he's pushing out of discomfort, just like he always does, so Erik rolls his eyes and lets it go.

By the time he's finished with the leftovers, the coffee's ready, so he turns to that next. Black for him, cream with two sugars for Ma. "Do you want a cup?" Erik says. "If you want tea, I think she only has Lipton."

"I'm fine," Charles says. When Erik turns, Charles is leaning back against the counter, arms folded loosely across his chest, dishtowel hanging from one hand. There's light coming in from the window above the sink, framing his face and his half-messy hair. Erik's struck, all at once, by how strange it is, seeing Charles _here_ , right here in the house Erik grew up in, where he spent every day of his youth.

Charles shifts his weight from one foot to the other as Erik gazes at him. "What are you staring at?" he says, trying for a levity in his tone he doesn't quite hit.

"You," Erik says. _You're fucking gorgeous, do you know that?_

 _Shut up_ , Charles sends back, drawing himself up and eyeing Erik severely. _Not now._

There's an edge of seriousness that says Charles means it, that Erik's pushing up dangerously close against his boundaries. Erik can't help it, dwelling on the fierce light in Charles's eyes and his slim, strong frame, the hair that is determined to misbehave. He keeps the thoughts under wraps as best he can, doesn't let them roam anywhere dangerous. He turns back to preparing the coffee mugs, fetching the sugar bowl and the dish for the cream. Everything's lower than it used to be, the top two shelves in each cabinet empty. Most things are in neat shelves or racks on the counter.

Ma's getting old. He remembers, as if it was yesterday – as if he had Charles's perfect memory – having to swear to his rabbi he could stay under control and not disrupt the machines keeping Ma alive. She'd been Mama then, and she'd been so small, surrounded by huge machines and tubes. She hadn't been the same – he hadn't been – after arriving home. But after therapy she'd been able to use a small ladder to reach the upper shelves, she'd still walked briskly, not hurrying, but with an efficiency that said she had things to do.

 _You love her_ , Charles sends, his mental voice touched with wistfulness and something else that makes Erik's throat go tight. It isn't grief, or pity, but something just as potent. He's moved a bit closer, hovering anxiously at the edge of Erik's vision.

Erik doesn't look at him. _I do_ , he says. _Very much so._ He floats a knife over from the wooden block again, and lifts the lid off the cake stand. The cake is a towering thing, perfectly frosted, chocolate on chocolate. He cuts a small slice for Ma, and a bigger one for Charles. 

"Too big," Charles says softly. "I'm not gonna finish that, after that meal."

"We'll see," Erik says, scooping the piece onto the dessert plate. He pauses, staring down at the cake for a moment. _Why does it surprise you?_ he sends, finally.

 _It's ... it's not surprise_. There's a layer of uncertainty in Charles's thoughts, like dust on a mantelpiece. _I knew it. It's just different to see it, I guess, to feel it. I've never felt like that about somebody._ Quickly, like an afterthought, something he doesn't quite mean to let it out: _Nobody's ever felt like that about me._

Erik breathes in deeply, pushing down the perverted urge to laugh along with the rage he feels whenever the subject of Charles's childhood comes up. There are only two people in the world that Erik has ever really cared about, and they're both here in this house with him right now. 

_I didn't mean that to sound like I was looking for reassurances_ , Charles thinks, after a few seconds of mental silence between them, as Erik still struggles to organize his thoughts. _I know you love me, I didn't mean that._

 _I do love you_ , Erik agrees. _I'm glad you know that._ He tells Charles often enough. 

_Sorry. I don't mean to ruin everything. I_ am _having a good time_ , Charles says. He can still only see Charles out of the corner of his eyes, and it feels odd not to be touching him at a moment like this; the only other times Charles shies away from him are when they're fighting, and Erik misses the intimacy, even with their minds as close as ever. _I just wasn't prepared for some of my feelings, I guess._

 _You haven't ruined anything_ , Erik tells him. While they hadn't talked much about it when Erik first told Charles Ma wanted to meet him, Erik figures he must always always have known many dimensions of this would be difficult for Charles. _How_ difficult it would be, he didn't know. Aloud, because their silence-that-isn't-silence is dragging on and Ma will be curious, he says, "Ma will guilt you into a bigger piece if I cut you a smaller one."

"When have I ever done such a thing?" Ma calls from the living room.

"Oh, that's right, she _bullies_ ," Erik says, just to hear Ma's annoyed _hmph_. Charles laughs softly, more smile than laughter, really. They aren't done talking about this, Erik knows, but at least Charles has gone back to thoughtful instead of anxious, his worry buried underneath his usual studied calm. Erik collects a few of Ma's jelly doughnuts for himself, adding a fourth, _for you,_ he says to Charles. _Ma won't rest until you've had one. Or three._

The logistics of getting everything to the living room take them a moment; in the end Charles carries in the two mugs while Erik balances all three dessert plates in his hands. He spares a thought to how much easier it would be in his apartment, where everything has at least a little metal inside to make things easier. 

Ma's never been to his place. They've never talked about it, but Erik knows the trip to Manhattan is too much for her, for reasons that have nothing to do the new frailty he's noticed. This house is Ma's castle, safe and under her complete control, and the neighborhood is an entire country for her, one whose borders she hasn't crossed in a long time. 

Erik seats himself on the loveseat diagonal from the armchair Ma presides in. Charles looks over the options in the room before seating himself next to Erik, close enough on the cushion that their knees can touch.

He ignores that as best he can, reminding himself that this – being seen together – is new for Charles anyway. He's slow to trust that this, the two of them, won't blow up in his face; he'll have to learn to trust Ma the way he's learned to trust Erik.

"Thank you, schatz," Ma says after she takes a sip of coffee. She frowns a little, peering down at her cup. "Erik, is this that coffee you always bring? You know you don't need to."

"What else will I drink when I visit?" Erik asks. It's an old dance, held whenever he brings her even small things; it's one they've had ever since she had come home from the hospital, needing his help for every little thing and resenting it (and him, a little, maybe), but unwilling to let a nurse's aide into the house. They'll take a few more steps now, when Erik asks, "Do you need me to do anything while I'm here?"

"If you could take a look at the gutters," Ma says. She usually never gives in so easily, even if she knows that it's no problem for Erik to hunt out all the small, metallic problems in the house. "It will give me a little time to talk with Charles."

"Of course," Erik says. He bites into one of the doughnuts, grabbing another one with his free hand as he stands up.

"I didn't mean right this moment," Ma protests.

"Better to get it over with, isn't it? I can tell when you're trying to get me out of the way."

"Never," Ma says, but she's smiling through it.

"Ba – _Charles_ ," Erik says – the endearment almost comes out, without his permission or intention, and he almost physically has to bite his tongue. It sounds like he has an odd stammer, and Charles gives him a piercing look with more than a little amusement in it. "Just remember to take everything she says with a grain of salt, all right?" Erik finishes.

Ma tuts in disapproval and Charles raises one of his eyebrows. "Are you suggesting your mother lies, Erik?"

"Not lies. Merely _exaggerates_ ," Erik explains.

Charles glances to Ma and back to Erik and says, "Maybe you should go outside before you get yourself in any more trouble."

"That's what I get for trying to be a good son," Erik says, but he leaves anyway, barely refraining from tousling Charles's hair, the way he always does when they're play-fighting and Erik wants to egg Charles on.

Instead, he steps outside into the postage-stamp backyard. Mrs. Rosenstein is probably lurking in her kitchen, which has a window that looks into the Lehnsherr backyard. His mutation's always been a curiosity to the rest of the neighborhood, Erik having been the first mutant child – or mutant of any age – in their tiny enclave in Queens. Erik hopes she won't ask him to fix _her_ gutters.

One section of the gutter is clogged and another is coming loose from its rivets. Fortunately, both are problems he can handle, although he'll have to keep an eye on the wood underneath the loose gutter, which seems like it might be aging. It's an old house and has its problems, but Erik's determined not to let them be Ma's problems. She'd had to pull herself together after Shaw to care for them both, when her savings had run out and she'd refused to take charity from their neighbors. She'd let Mr. Rosenstein in to take care of some of the things Erik was too young to be trusted with, and Rabbi Kaufman, and Mrs. Rosenstein had cooked for them for a while, but that had been it. Erik wishes Ma would let _him_ take care of her for once.

It strikes him, suddenly, that Ma and Charles are a lot alike. The mental image of a seventy-year-old Jewish woman trapped in the body of a nineteen-year-old telepath nearly derails him with laughter. Underneath it, though, there's truth: they're both proud, unwilling to appear weak and fearful of what accepting help could mean.

Working on the gutter only really requires half his brain to pay attention to what he's doing; the rest of him is free to think it over, examining the new idea from different angles. He's not sure, really, why he didn't see it before, but understanding how people work has never been one of Erik's strengths.

(Charles would argue with that, he knows. Charles would say Erik understands people much better than he thinks he does, and for that matter, likes them better than he thinks. Charles thinks that's one of the things that makes Erik such a good cop.)

When he's done with the gutter, he sits down on the stoop and pulls his pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. Mrs. Rosenstein will tell on him, on the small chance that Ma doesn't smell it on him immediately, but Erik doesn't care. It's been a week or two since his last smoke – Charles has started hiding his cigarettes whenever he leaves them lying around. It's not a particularly effective method, since Charles is oddly terrible at hiding things, but the point is less to try to take them away than to just make Erik more aware of it, and in that it works well enough.

The yard looks good, well-kept and trimmed, though the flowers are nothing compared to the garden his mother maintained when Erik was a boy. He used to take care of mowing the grass and doing the weeding for her, too, when he visited, but lately she's been paying the Davidson boys down the street to do it every week; they're saving up for a video game or something else that their mother won't buy for them, and Ma wants to encourage their work ethic and independence.

Erik finishes his cigarette, stubbing it out on the concrete before slipping the dead butt into his shirt pocket and heading back inside.

He stops in the doorway to the living room. Ma and Charles are playing cribbage, of all things, both of them frowning in concentration down at their cards. Charles looks up first, aware of Erik's presence right away, and gives Erik a smile that matches the faint tendril of pleasure that wraps around his mind. Ma follows him, a moment later.

"Your boy is trouncing me!" she announces proudly, gesturing toward the wooden board. Even from here Erik can see that the red peg is far ahead of the blue. He's distracted, at first, by _your boy_ , caught by it and what it means. Ma continues, with a fond, if chastising smile, for Charles, "He told me he'd never played before."

Erik laughs as he circles around Charles, giving into the impulse and ruffling his hair this time. Charles leans away. "I tried to teach him poker a few weeks ago, and he took me for everything I had." 

"Poker's easy," Charles says, sounding serious. "It's just probability."

"So what's cribbage, then?" Erik asks. He slides into place next to Charles, sitting a bit closer than her perhaps should, but Charles doesn't seem to mind.

"Counting and memory," Charles says. He gives Erik his superior smile, entirely too cheeky and full of himself. _You ass_ , Erik thinks fondly at him, and has to resist the urge Erik's pleased to notice that the last jelly doughnut has gone – courtesy of Charles, who has a tiny bit of jam hiding at the corner of his lip.

"Is that also your mutation?" Ma asks as she studies her cards. "The way Erik's explained it, it sounds as if you have several."

Charles swallows, his fingers tightening on his cards. "It's not telepathy, Mrs. Lehnsherr. It's just... my brain is very highly-developed, as a result of a complex of genes whose interactions produce my mutation." His voice has dropped, Erik notices, into a rote sing-song, as if Charles is speaking from memory. No, there's no _as if_ about it; Charles _is_ ; Erik can almost hear the clinical preciseness of words being read off a chart. "As a result, I have eidetic memory, perfect recall, heightened empathy."

"So you're very, very smart," Ma says, "and very, very sensitive, is that right?"

Charles bites his lip. "That's one way of putting it, I guess. Simplified, but..." He shrugs.

"Hmm," Ma says. Her eyes look soft around the edges. "That sounds like it must be very hard for you."

"Oh, I – I don't – " Charles is stumbling on his words. It's not something Erik sees with him, almost ever. "I'm not – other people have real problems, Mrs. Lehnsherr. I'm just..." He trails off at the end, ducking his head back to his hands, like the same four cards he's been looking at for the past few minutes have suddenly changed. 

Nobody talks for a few moments, and then Ma says, "Charles, sweetheart, it's your turn to start the counting."

"Right, of course," Charles says, quickly laying down a card on the table. "Nine."

Erik leans in against Charles's shoulder, sending Charles a brief silent question as he does. _Yes_ , Charles says, _that's fine_ , and Erik settles in, watching they go through the motions of playing the cards and then tallying up their hands. 

Charles wins in the end, although not after a lapse of concentration – caused, Erik figures, by Ma's words – that allows Ma to gain a few places on him. When they finish up, Ma sets down her cards and claps delightedly, the light flashing on her wedding ring.

"Oh, that was lovely!" Ma cheers. "I should bring you to cribbage night with Judith and Esther and have you show them a thing or two."

Charles only looks bemused, and somewhat at a loss; it lets Erik lean in a little closer, squeezing Charles's hand surreptitiously, and say, "He wouldn't survive the experience."

"Be respectful," Ma scolds. But there's a twinkle in her eye that says she knows what Erik's saying and agrees. Judith Rosenstein and Esther Katz have been fixtures in their lives since Erik can remember, friends of a sort to Ma despite them trying to marry her off when she had been a young widow only a few years past her husband's death, but then unflinching (if unwanted) supports after Shaw and during Ma's convalescence. Erik doesn't really know how to describe their friendship, except to compare it to his own with Moira, or to Logan.

 _You both need friends, but don't quite know what to do with them. But when you do have them, you won't let go_. Charles's thoughts twine warmly around his; before he really knows it, Erik's smiling.

It's true. He holds on tight to the things – people – he cares about. 

The clock on the mantelpiece chimes. It's later than Erik thought, though the sky is still bright and blue where it comes in through the windows. "We should get going," Erik says. The feeling coming from Charles is a strange mix of reluctance and relief, almost in equal measure.

Ma sighs and says, "I know, I know, you have to go."

Erik sends to Charles, _Do you mind taking the leftovers out to the car while I say goodbye to Ma?_

 _And give you some time to talk about me? Not at all_ , Charles responds, almost flip. He stands up, crossing the space between them a little awkwardly, and extends his hand towards Ma with a wide smile. "It was truly lovely to meet you, Mrs. Lehnsherr," he says with such careful, perfect politeness that Erik has to bite his lip to keep from grinning. "You have a beautiful home. I'm sure we'll see each other again soon."

"It was lovely to meet you, too, Charles," Ma says, her mouth twisted into the same expression Erik's avoiding. "Thank you for coming."

They shake hands, but then Ma must _think_ a question at Charles because Charles jumps a little, his eyes going wide. He nods, though, and lets himself – for a wonder – be folded into a hug. Ma's long, slender fingers close around Charles's shoulders, holding him tightly. Erik can't see Charles's face and doesn't have much of a sense of what he's thinking, but whatever it is, it can't be bad.

"You _will_ come to see me again," Ma says firmly. "Come whenever you like, so I can make sure my son is taking care of you properly."

"He always does," Charles says, but he's smiling. He glances at Erik, almost shyly, before heading to the kitchen to collect the bowls and containers of leftovers.

"Thank you for bringing him," Ma says. "He's a lovely boy, Erik. I'm so happy you've found someone."

"Me, too," Erik says. He runs a hand through his hair and gives her a rueful smile. "You must have starting doubting it was going to happen for me after all this time."

Ma shakes her head. "Not once, _schatz_. You play stern, but you have a loving heart, and I've always known you'd find somebody worth giving it to."

Charles passes by in the hallway, loaded with food. Erik opens and closes the door after him, getting a buss of absent affection in return. Ma's fallen silent, keeping her words to herself, maybe knowing that they're words Erik might not want anyone else, even Charles, to hear. 

"You should see the way you look at him," Ma says quietly. "That slip of a boy has you wrapped around his little finger, doesn't he?" Erik shakes his head in immediate protest, but she goes on, "You bend around him like a mama lion with her cub, like you'd claw out and maul anybody who tried to hurt him. Even if it was me."

Erik scoffs at that, outright. "Ma, if you think – "

"And that's as it should be," Ma says firmly before Erik can get another word in. "Charles hasn't had a single person put him first, above everyone, not once in his life."

"He won't thank me for... for _mauling_ anyone," Erik says, thinking of Frost, the encounter with Shaw, every thought Erik's ever had about striking back at a world that would dare limit someone as brilliant as Charles.

"But you'd do it anyway, if you knew it would keep him safe." Ma offers him her most arch expression, the expression Erik associates with her being right and his being trapped in perpetual adolescent wrongness. He groans, but Ma continues, "Don't be stubborn now, Erik. You know you would do that for him. And I know how important it is for that boy to know you're _always_ on his side, even if he sometimes acts like he doesn't want you to be."

"Are you the telepath now?" Erik grumbles. He'd known this conversation was coming, and while he's infamous for being blunt and tactless himself, it's not easy, being on the receiving end of his own weapons.

"I don't need to be a telepath to know you, _schatzi_ ," Ma says. "And," she continues with a devilish grin, "Charles told me how you met. How you _really_ met."

It surprises and pleases Erik at the same time. That story basically centers around Charles breaking the law; he wouldn't have thought Charles would be comfortable enough to share that with her. It's easy enough for Charles to please people, to make himself liked, but for him to be that honest is much rarer.

"He has a face it's hard to say no to," Erik says, finally. "He's good at covering himself up, good at hiding what he really feels, but at the center, he's..." He can't find the right word. Not fragile, or soft, because both of those seem to denigrate the strength that's at the core of Charles, that keeps him up and standing and working during the hardest moments. He thinks back to Ma's words during the card game and finishes, "He's sensitive."

"Aren't we all, at heart," Ma murmurs, half to herself. She lifts herself slowly out of her chair, and Erik stands with her. She allows him to take her elbow as they walk toward the front door. When they get there, he wraps her up in a hug, pulling almost off her feet, clinging to her in a way he hasn't in a while, the way he used to every time he saw her. 

"I love you, Mama," he whispers into her hair.

"I love you too," Ma says into his collar bone. He reassures himself with the strength of her arms around him and the steady, indomitable beat of her heart. When he doesn't let go, Ma laughs a little, although it's the kind of laugh that covers for something else. "You aren't saying goodbye to me forever, liebling. I'm going to make sure you bring Charles back to see me very, very soon. And make sure he knows he's welcome, any time."

"I will," Erik says hoarsely. It's easier said than done; Charles still has his moments where he circles warily around Erik's affection, flinching away from any offer of care. But Erik has a feeling Ma can overcome that, if anyone can. "I'll call you soon."

"You always do." Ma lets him go slowly, reaching up to cup his cheeks. The silver of her wedding ring is warm and familiar against his skin, one of the first pieces of metal Erik had ever sensed, and one of the pieces he knows down to its atoms. Her hands smell like the lotion she's worn every day of her life, a delicate scent that makes up part of the tapestry of things he'll always associate with her. "You make me very proud, Erik. I hope you know that."

He doesn't know if she means for his work, his success, or for Charles, but he says, "I know, Mama."

Erik makes his way out the door, down the front steps, along the sidewalk. Charles is waiting for him in the car, buckled into the passenger seat and drumming his fingers along the edge of the open window. He turns toward Erik as Erik settles into his own seat, watching with the aware and focused expression that Erik knows means thoughts are running especially quickly in his head. Charles waits until Erik is looking back at him, just as focused in his attention, and then he leans in and kisses Erik gently.

It's a short kiss. Charles's hand is on Erik's neck, firm, steady, possessive. Charles sighs as he ends it, moving back fully into his own seat and giving Erik a quiet smile.

Neither of them speak until after Erik's started the car and they've been driving for a few minutes, heading out of the neighborhood and into the tangle of streets around the main shopping area. Charles breaks the silence first, saying in a thoughtful tone, "I had a good time."

"I told you that you would," Erik says. He doesn't have to look over at Charles to know he's rolling his eyes. "What did you and Ma talk about, while I was outside?"

"Cribbage." Charles is staring straight ahead, but Erik can see the teasing curl of his mouth in the corner of his vision. "And you and your many foibles, of course."

Erik snorts. "She told _me_ you talked about how I busted you for illegally buying alcohol."

Charles colors, a blush that's as endearing as it is revealing. Erik hopes he never grows out of that reflex, that physical evidence of his emotions. "She said she thought there was more to it than what you told her when you first told her about me. _Considering he couldn't say enough about you_ , she said, _I knew something had to be going on when all he'd say about your meeting was that you met at work._ That's a direct quote, by the way." Charles breathes deeply. "I can see where you got your interrogation skills from, love. But beyond that... I felt she should know. She accepted me into her home, and I know that's difficult for her, and she... she trusts me with you. I wanted to be worthy of that."

Erik can imagine the scene easily: how earnest Charles's eyes would have been while he made his confession, the way Ma must have laughed afterward in pleasure – her booming laugh, the one she only lets out on occasion, surprisingly loud for how small she is – at Charles's honesty and sincerity. At his guilty secret, so innocent and inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.

Anything Erik can say out loud right now would sound ridiculous and sappy, and he thinks maybe he's had enough of that for the day. Instead he makes a small sound and sends Charles a wordless thought, full of the complicated emotions Charles's presence gives him. 

Charles gives him back an answering pulse of feeling, the mental equivalent of a squeeze of the hand. "We talked about other things, too," he says aloud. "She was telling me about when your dad died."

"She talked to you about my dad?" Erik says in surprise. The surprise is more for the fact Ma talked about his father at all, than she talked about him with Charles. 

Charles nods. "She was telling me how they had been married so long before they had you, and then he died when you were still so little, and she had never worked or been on her own before. She said your grandparents wanted her to move in with them so they could take care of her, and you, and instead she decided to take you and move into that little house and get a job and just ... do it all on her own." Charles's voice is soft, and there's admiration in it. "You really ... after meeting her, I can see where you get so much of it from. Although she's a lot nicer about it."

This is true. Ma might know what she wants, and she might always get her way, but she does it with a smile, in a way that makes it seem like she's doing you a favor. Erik's never done anything but bulldoze his way right through. Not until Charles, at least.

"She's been all I've had for a long time. For a long time, after Shaw, we just had each other." It had nearly killed him to go away to college; he'd put it off for a year, before Ma had shoved him out the door. Charles has seen Erik's nightmares, the ones in which he couldn't save Mama – when he'd frozen and Shaw had shot her – and in which he'd been left alone, and some of his life afterward, but it's different, maybe, for Charles to see the other half of the story.

Charles makes a soft, affirming noise. "I know how important she is to you, Erik. And you... you're everything for her." Erik chokes against a hot flood of guilt, thinking of Ma's words to him as giving him up so he could have this with Charles. But Charles says quickly, "No, no, Erik. She wouldn't have it any other way." He pauses. "She asked me if I would look, to know that she meant what she said, but I didn't need to. I just knew. And you're not giving her up, not at all."

"I know," Erik says impatiently. He swallows past the knot in his throat, returns his attention to the road in time to catch the turn he needs.

"She also said... she said she wished you could remember your dad, and not just in pictures. She wanted to know if I could _help_ you remember, but I told her I couldn't. I'm maybe strong enough, but I don't know how those memories work." Charles is looking at him, Erik can tell; he turns away from the road because he can't _not_ look at Charles, at his bright, anxious eyes, his fingers clasped around the hand Erik has resting on the gearshift. "They're so different from the ones after most people develop language, I don't know how to handle them. But I _would_ help you remember, if I could."

"I appreciate that," Erik says. "It'd be for her sake, more than mine, I think. Growing up – I didn't feel his absence the way I think she thought I would. It was more curiosity than loss, I guess." He had his mama; as a child, she was the center of his universe, and the framed picture in the front hall couldn't compete with that, not even in imagination. Erik knows now that her friends – and not only her friends, every nosy acquaintance she had – were trying to get her to marry again during those years, and a lot of it was the self-evident fact that a boy needs a father.

It was years after the attack, not until after Erik was in college, that it occurred to him that a big part of the reason why she let Shaw get so close in the first place was that she thought Erik needed a man in his life to be a father figure.

Still, even with all the pressure, she didn't remarry. She talked to Erik's dad out loud every night when Erik was a child. For all he knows, she still does. She still wears her wedding ring thirty years later. When she woke up in the hospital bed, seeing Erik sitting by her side, crying and clutching her hand, the first words out of her mouth were his dad's name.

Maybe it's part of why Erik gave up on relationships, dating, sex, so early and so completely. Maybe in the back of his mind he was comparing the emptiness he felt to _that_. 

"Or maybe you were just waiting for me," Charles says, with a lightness in his tone that's only a little forced.

"Maybe I was." He can't put that light edge in his tone that Charles can, not when he thinks it could be true, that it probably is. He hadn't known it until he was too far in to stop.

The urge to touch Charles is almost painfully physical. It's like waking up the morning after Shaw, with Charles sitting on his dresser halfway across the room, so far and so untouchable. Charles had resigned himself to Erik hating him for so many things – for violating Erik's trust, for making him helpless in front of the man who'd nearly taken everything from him – and hadn't been willing to venture close, not until Erik asked. He wants to ask now, to pull over on the side of the road and pull Charles into his lap, but there are rules he keeps himself to, because he knows what happens when he lets himself break them.

 _We're almost home_ , Charles sends, the words soothing like water on fire. Erik concentrates on the road as best he can, seeking through the traffic for the fastest route to his parking space. Charles's hand is still folded over his, fingers following the movement of Erik's wrist and fingers as he shifts gear, and he doesn't let go until they're parked and climbing out of the car.

Erik's hands are full of Tupperware then, as they walk into the building and take the elevator up to his floor. Once they're inside his apartment, he takes his time, putting all the food carefully away in the fridge, exactly where it's supposed to be. When he closes the refrigerator door and turns around, Charles is sitting on the counter in his bare feet, watching him with a careful attention.

Erik steps forward into the open space between Charles's legs. Charles's mouth parts a little, waiting for a kiss, but Erik has something else he needs to do before that: he brings his hands up into Charles's thick hair and ruffles it up, forcing away the last lingering traces of neatness and careful grooming from this morning, until it's back to that familiar tousled anarchy.

"That's better," Erik says gruffly. 

Charles purses his lips into an expression Erik would never describe as a pout, at least not out loud. "Ridiculous. You're so ridiculous." He reaches out to Erik anyway, looping his hands around Erik's neck, pressing gently against the bones to pull him in.

It's not much pressure, but then, Erik doesn't need much, not when it comes to Charles. He bends in and gives Charles the kiss he's been asking for, fighting back a smile as Charles's mouth opens on a satisfied sigh to let him in, all warm and wet and welcome just like always. Charles licks at him greedily, soft sounds in the back of his throat that ask for more, quietly desperate next to the delighted _come on, Erik_ that Charles pushes at him.

Erik gets his hands on Charles's slim hips, under that pretty ass of his, and hitches him forward across the counter so he's tight against Erik's chest, his legs wrapped around Erik's thighs. It means Erik can crush him close, try to climb under Charles's pale, freckled skin the way Charles has got under his, it means he can pull Charles's neatly-pressed shirt out from his trousers and run his fingers up and down Charles's spine. It always makes Charles shiver and it does now, too, a delicious frission of muscle against him, Charles breaking their kiss to catch a breath that Erik's touch has stolen from him.

 _Take me to bed now or do me up against the wall or get me off right here_ , Charles thinks, although even his mental voice is too fractured to be properly imperious. Erik nips and sucks at the trembling column of Charles's throat, right over where his pulse is racketing in ecstasy. _Erik!_ Charles thinks, although he clutches Erik's hair to keep him from moving, and holds his body tighter when Erik tries to shift away.

That's fine; if Erik can't move away from Charles, he'll take Charles with him. He palms Charles's ass, hands wide, as he hoists him up in the air. Charles makes a surprised noise that comes close to being a squeak (though he doubts Charles will ever admit it), clinging on to Erik tightly. Charles is heavier than he looks, but not so heavy that Erik can't support him like this. The bedroom might be too far away, but he can get them to the living room couch.

He drops Charles onto the cushion, none too gently, pulling away when Charles tugs on his shirt, trying to drag Erik down on top of him. He kneels down in front of the couch instead, pushing Charles's knees apart as wide as they will go. It forces his trousers to strain tight against the crotch, showing off the bulge of his erection. Erik cups it with his hand, massaging Charles firmly through the fabric, and Charles sighs and throws his head back, eyes falling closed.

"Erik, please," Charles says. His voice is already low, that throaty edge nobody but Erik ever hears, and his hips are moving a little, ragged and impatient. 

Erik focuses his power to unsnap the metal button, undo the zipper, and uses his hands to pull the pants down Charles's legs and off of him, before throwing them aside. He slips one hand into the gap at the front of Charles's boxers, groping blindly at Charles's cock, and leaves the other on Charles's thigh. "Undo your shirt for me," Erik says.

Charles's fingers are inarticulate on his buttons, fumbling with them and tugging impatiently until, one by one, they finally pop free. Loose as it is, the shirt trails off his shoulders, the neat pale blue fabric framing the flush that's working its way down Charles's neck and chest to where it washes against his nipples. Charles brushes his thumbs across them, pinching them gently, and sighs and shivers at what he's doing to himself. Erik wants to replace Charles's fingers with his mouth, but he holds back; it's lovely enough, watching Charles tease himself, pushing up into his own fingers and arching his hips into Erik's palm.

 _Are you gonna get me off or just sit there?_ Charles's mental voice is blurry with lust; the slit-eyed look he gives Erik is both drugged and impatient, _sultry_ if Erik wanted to be ridiculous about it.

"I don't know," Erik tells him. He offers Charles the smirk that drives Charles crazy, the one that says he'll have to wait for Erik to give him what he wants. Erik doesn't much feel like waiting, though, not with Charles hardening under his touch. He pulls Charles's cock free of his boxers, and while Charles is still half-convinced Erik's going to drag this out, goes down on him, taking Charles deep into his mouth.

He keeps his eyes open so he can look up at Charles's face and see everything – the way Charles's eyes keep fluttering shut before he forces them open once more, too foggy to be able to meet Erik's gaze; the way his teeth worry and play almost continuously on his lower lip, forcing it to become even redder than normal, swollen from biting the same way it gets when Erik's been kissing him for hours. The gnawing doesn't keep in the noises Charles makes, the soft little sighs and murmurs.

Charles reaches down, grabbing Erik's hand where it rests on his thigh, and twines their fingers together, squeezing hard, hanging on like he never wants to let go. His knees are tight against Erik's ribcage, his legs shaking in a way that belies the aura of lazy languor he gives off.

 _Are you close already?_ Erik thinks. He pulls off a little, just enough that only Charles's cockhead is still in his mouth, concentrating his tongue on the most sensitive places while he jacks the shaft with his free hand.

 _Yes_ , Charles says breathily. He rolls his hips, pushing his cock through the tight circle of Erik's fist. He doesn't have much leverage so he doesn't get past the hold Erik has on him, which makes him whine. _Please, Erik, let me come this is too good, too much –_

"Hmm," Erik hums, _hang on a little longer, baby, I'll make this so good for you if you just hang on_. He takes a little more of Charles in, still sucking strongly, lapping against the hard, hot flesh in his mouth. Charles groans, a sound that rattles in his chest as the head rubs against the back of Erik's mouth, as Erik presses his tongue against the underside of his cock, rough and sleek at the same time, and then draws off, tonguing hard underneath the crown before returning to sucking again. Precome drips salty on his tongue, joining the salt and sweat from Charles's skin, a combination that drugs Erik the way the endless wash of Charles's thoughts and sensations does, pulling him away from himself.

He gets a snapshot, then, of what Charles is seeing, lust-torn at the edges: Erik's head between his legs, spit dripping down his fingers, his own belly and thighs trembling. His mind – Charles's mind; he can't say which, they're so blurred – is sparking with pleasure, a million points of light connecting, running together, catching fire, burning him up.

He lifts his head slowly off Charles's cock, letting fall out of his mouth with a loud wet noise. He's still holding Charles's cock firmly in his fist as he closes his eyes and begins to nuzzle it, letting Charles rub and paint wetly as the head skids across his lips, cheeks, jaw. Charles's breath keeps hitching, as if he can't find a proper rhythm. He lets out a louder cry, and his mental _Erik!_ rings through Erik's head when Erik moves down to mouth at his balls.

 _Suck your fingers into your mouth_ , Erik thinks. _Pretend it's my cock, filling you up, just the way you always love it._

He can't see Charles to confirm, but he knows Charles is doing it, and Charles responds with a moan, muffled around his flesh, as his cock twitches wildly in Erik's grip.

_Erik, please, I can't wait any more –_

_I won't make you wait, baby_ , Erik tells him. He goes back to sucking, taking Charles in deep as he can, until he's nosing at the damp curls at the base of Charles's cock, drawing off just in time, replacing his mouth with the tight, ruthless grip of his fist, sucking only on the crown now, not bothering to be delicate. Charles's legs tighten, straining along with the rest of his body up into Erik's mouth and hands.

 _Come on, Charles_ , he thinks, not that Charles needs the encouragement. He comes hard, spurting across Erik's tongue over and over, his entire body shivering like it's caught in an earthquake. He must still have his fingers in his mouth; Erik can't see, with his eyes still closed and tears burning just behind his lids; through the thunder in his own head, he hears the muffled sounds of Charles's moans and cries, stifled by his fingers. 

Charles's euphoria catches at Erik, snagging at him like a riptide and sweeping him out of himself. He holds on, fighting not to come even though he wants to, he wants it like nothing else he's ever wanted before, it feels like. After all these times with Charles, so many times with Charles in his head, their pleasure mixing together like two crossing currents, he isn't used to it. It's just as powerful, as irresistible, every time.

Erik swallows Charles's come, releasing his cock and sitting back on his haunches. When he opens his eyes, he has to blink rapidly for a few seconds before everything comes back into focus. Charles looks ruined – it's a look Erik will never, ever tired of being the cause of – with his chest still heaving with his ragged breaths, his spit-shiny hand lying limp against his heart. He's almost lying on the couch more than sitting, scooted so far forward to the edge of the seat that his ass is almost hanging off. 

Their other hands are still locked together; Charles has been gripping him so tightly that Erik feels sore as he untangles their fingers now. He places both his hands on Charles's thighs and pulls him forward with a sudden motion, so that gravity helps him down into Erik's lap, straddling him awkwardly. 

Charles slumps in his arms, boneless, burying his head against Erik's shoulder, pressing a few lazy kisses through the fabric of his shirt. _You're still dressed_ , Charles says vaguely, as if it comes as a surprise. 

_Not my fault. Someone was a little impatient_ , Erik reminds him. 

"Sorry," Charles murmurs, and presses kisses flavored with apology to Erik's neck, his lips warm against cooling sweat. When he nuzzles in closer, Erik welcomes him, wrapping the long line of his torso around Charles to enfold him completely. He thinks of Ma's words to him earlier and laughs a little, knows the second Charles catches the memory because Charles huffs impatiently. He doesn't pull away, though.

 _You'll tell me if it's ever too much, right?_ Charles doesn't have to say what _it_ is. Whether it's because Charles's telepathy is still an ever-changing thing as his abilities unfold themselves, or because Erik simply knows because he knows the shades of Charles's telepathy, Erik can't say. But he knows what Charles is talking about, the pure, heady force of him when he's reaching out, all that power unfettered and sweeping Erik up like dust in a windstorm.

Erik hushes him, mostly breath against the damp curve of Charles's ear, stirring the sweaty strands of his hair. He hasn't come, for a wonder; although he's achingly hard, he doesn't feel urgent. He could sit here, curled around Charles and slowly work himself off, or let his arousal dim . The only thing that's imperative is staying here, letting Charles hold him close and holding him in turn.

 _I'm not going anywhere_ , Charles reassures him. _But let's at least make you a little more comfortable, darling._ He nudges Erik, and Erik sighs. He doesn't let go of Charles, tugging him along with as he pushes himself backwards to lie on the floor. Charles rearranges himself so he's half on top of Erik and half next to him, throwing his thigh over Erik's as soon as Erik gets his legs out from beneath him.

"You're so good to me," Charles says softly. He runs his hand down Erik's chest, stopping to pull his shirt out where it's tucked into his pants, and then he's working at Erik's fly one-handed. Erik lets out a grunt when the final button comes loose, and he pushes himself up against the pressure of Charles's palm, vainly trying to follow it when Charles lifts his hand away. It's only for a moment, though, as Charles licks his hand, thoroughly coating it with his spit before slipping under Erik's waistband to grab him, skin to skin.

Charles lifts himself up on his elbow as he starts to stroke, staring down at his own hand moving under the fabric. Erik makes a noise – _not_ a whine – and Charles flicks his eyes back up to meet Erik's gaze and give him a small smile. He leans over to kiss Erik, and Erik brings his hands up, under the shirt that's still hanging off Charles's body, digging his nails into Charles's damp back.

 _I love the feel of your cock in my hand, do you know that_? Charles sends. _Love it in my mouth, in my ass. I dream about it sometimes, wake up drooling on my pillow, rubbing against the sheets..._ Dim vague visions along with the words, images Erik can barely process, memories of dreams like concentrated sex. _How do you do that, make me feel like this, like I can't live without you, like there could never be anyone else?_

Erik laughs, although it's choky, cut-off, like he's suffocating. Charles's thoughts have the hazy quality they get during sex, when he's high on touch and their combined pleasure, and he says things he feels in the moment but might take back later – but there's also an element of conviction there, of sincere, giddy disbelief, that stuns Erik when he recognizes it. After all these months he still has no idea why Charles is with him; he only knows that he's grateful that he is.

 _Love you_ , he says instead of all the words he can't say. It's telling, probably, that it's easier for him to say _I love you_ than so many other things. He cradles Charles's face in his hands, tracing his thumbs across the blush that covers his cheekbones, that makes the blue of his eyes so much more vivid. When he pulls Charles into a kiss, gathering Charles close to him, Charles comes to him so perfectly, melting against him as if there really is no other place he could possibly be, no other place he could possibly fit so well.

He keeps stroking Erik the way he likes best, long, hard, almost too tight but the near-pain makes it even better. Erik grinds against him, lost in the delight Charles is pulling from his body, in the taste of Charles against his mouth and the sudden, coruscating thrill when Charles realizes he's tasting his own come in Erik's kiss. That realization, melting into fierce possessive _delight_ , that Erik tastes like Charles and only him, that only Erik knows (and will ever know) this about him, pushes Erik over the edge and he comes on a sudden gasp, shivering apart with only Charles to keep him together.

Charles removes his hand from Erik's shorts, wiping off the come on the fabric – _Hey_ , Erik thinks, but he's too sated to react more than that – and then wraps his arm around Erik's waist, squeezing him tightly. His pointy chin rests on Erik's chest, bony enough to be almost painful through the weight of Charles's skull pressing down. Erik curls his hand into Charles's sweaty curls, keeping him from moving away, even though Charles shows no sign of trying to.

Charles's thoughts are muted, though Erik can still feel his presence in his mind, light and careful, a subtle touch like the brush of fingertips against his arm. "Looking for something in particular?" Erik says, as he regains his breath.

"No," Charles says slowly. "I was just ... thinking about something your mother said earlier." He shares the memory – Ma, brisk and almost business-like as she shuffles the cards, saying _I know my son, and I haven't seen him happy like this in a long time. You're good for him._ It makes Erik smile up at the ceiling. He's smiled a lot today, he realizes. More than he has in a long, long time. They didn't come this easy before he and Charles got together – like the Tin Man, Erik thinks, without his oil can.

Charles says, "Maybe I don't mind you taking care of me quite so much if I'm taking care of you as well."

 _I think you just described a relationship_ , Erik says.

 _Don't be an ass_ , Charles grumbles. He presses down a little harder, just enough to hurt so that Erik can't ignore it. Erik wonders how he's never realized that Charles's chin is so pointy. When he grunts in protest, Charles lightens up, shifting so he can nuzzle Erik's chest instead. "I just mean," Charles says aloud this time, "that's the first time I've ever seen someone taking care of you, and you not objecting. And," he pauses, considering his next words, "I guess I realized I could do that too. Maybe I had been, but hadn't known it at the time."

He certainly had been taking care of Erik that terrible day he'd knocked Erik out – and Shaw, too; Erik wishes he could have seen that – and gotten between Erik and disaster. Erik can't quite see the other ways Charles takes care of him, not when Charles has accused him (rightfully) of coddling him, trying to shield him from the terrible things Erik thinks inhabit his mind. But he must be.

 _Your mother is trusting me with you_ , Charles sends, sounding a little stunned, as if the meaning of that is only now sinking in. He smiles wryly, pushing his amusement alongside Erik's thoughts like a cat angling for attention. _So you have to let me take care of you, or I'll have to answer to her_.

"Well," Erik says, "if you've both made up your mind, then I suppose there's no point in my even trying to argue, is there?"

"Since when does anything stop you from arguing?" Charles says, half a laugh in his voice.

Erik narrows his eyes and rolls the two of them over, narrowly avoiding hitting his head against the coffee table, until Charles is on his back with Erik above him, covering his body like a blanket. Charles smiles up at him, eyes bright and unclouded in a way that Erik rarely sees and always covets. 

A sudden tempting urge rises up in him to ask Charles to move in with him – but he pushes it down immediately, back as far as he can, hoping Charles didn't see it. Even after all these months his instinct is still to push. However much time they spend together, he knows perfectly well that Charles still needs that sanctuary of his very own, as a symbol if nothing else, a _just in case_.

If Charles catches it, he doesn't say anything, and Erik's stray thought doesn't seem to trouble him; he only hums happily and leans up to nip at Erik's mouth, catching his lower lip between sharp teeth and tugging. He draws back when Erik growls at him, smirking as Erik licks at his lower lip, which is swelling a little around the indent of a canine. A moment later he does it again and pokes Erik in the ribs a few times before Erik can grab his hands, twine their fingers together and press Charles's wrists into the carpet.

Even like this, Charles isn't daunted, his smirk outright wicked at how Erik, despite knowing Charles is playing with him, still bends to receive his kisses, still wants him badly enough to risk Charles's unexpected thorns and sharp spots.

"Monster," Erik mutters. He turns that biting, teasing pressure into a kiss, wishes he could do more about this, with Charles mostly naked and pinned beneath him, so deliciously close. Charles laughs into the kiss, the kind of smile Erik loves best, that makes him – can make anyone – smile back. He thinks suddenly, absurdly, that lying like this, wrapped around Charles, is protective, possessive, but even underneath him Charles is still strong and sturdy, strong enough to hold him up.

"Not a monster," Charles mumbles between kisses. "I had it on great authority this afternoon that I'm a very nice boy."

"Ha," Erik says. "Ha, ha, _ha_."

 _Besides_ , Charles thinks, _you wouldn't have me any other way. You wouldn't know what to do with me if I didn't push you_.

There's possibly truth in that. No, there almost certainly is. He squeezes Charles's hands tight, pushing him down harder against the floor, and Charles practically purrs like a kitten, arching up against Erik's weight and wrapping his foot around to stroke the back of Erik's calf.

Erik moves his mouth down to Charles's neck, and then his collarbone, trailing kisses from freckle to freckle. 

"What happened to all those errands and chores you had to get done tonight?" Charles teases. "You're not going to have any clean socks for the week."

"Oh, should I stop?" Erik levers himself up; he doesn't make it far before Charles has a heel pressed commandingly into the back of his thigh to pull him back down.

 _Stay with me for a while?_ Charles can't quite hide the hopeful edge in the thought. _I'll even sort your socks for you later._

 _Oh, if that's what you're promising..._ It's easy, so easy, to sink back down and fold Charles under him, feel the warm and solid length of his body under Erik's own, and listen to the idle drift of Charles's thoughts as they kiss and touch, passing over the past day, the past months, always coming back to here, the two of them.

It's getting dark, the long summer sun fading through the windows; the floor is hard and not particularly comfortable; Charles is right, he does have things he should get done before they both go back to work in the morning. "Just a little while longer, like this," Erik says aloud, and Charles hums in agreement against his throat. 

They both know, Erik suspects, that he's not going anywhere until Charles pushes him away. There's nowhere else he wants to be, other than right here.


End file.
